A Beautiful Thing
by Carole
Summary: By hook or by crook, a Malfoy always gets what he wants in the end. DMHP Slash


Once upon a time, I swore I would never read HP fic.  
But some of it is just so GOOD and I broke down and  
gave in. Then, I said I wouldn't stoop to writing it  
and here I am posting a story. Gah, I have no excuse  
except the stress of midterms. I woke up a week ago  
with this in my brain and I had to write it so it  
would shut up and let me study.  
  
For the curious, the theme song for this piece is 'Mad  
World' from the Donnie Darko soundtrack.  
  
====================================================  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. But if anyone wants to  
buy me Draco for Christmas, I wouldn't say no.  
  
Warnings: Slash, Dementia, Death  
  
Pairing : DM/HP  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Summary: By hook or by crook, a Malfoy always gets  
what he wants in the end.  
  
====================================================  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
A Beautiful Thing  
by Carole  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
One of his earliest memories is of the sea. It is the  
impression of sand beneath his feet and the denial of  
the first breezes of autumn under a sky of perfect  
blue. His father would no doubt have been disappointed  
if he had known. That sort of question, however, was  
not anything his father would have thought to ask.  
  
When he was four years old, a child with storm grey  
eyes and laughter that filled empty rooms in spite of  
disapproval, his family visited the beach. Or, more  
accurately told, he and his mother made their way to  
the sand and surf. His father was otherwise occupied  
in a nearby town ruining the career of a ministry  
official and did not need a rambunctious boy  
underfoot. That did not remain part of his memory, for  
a child is excited at the prospect of an afternoon of  
games free from stern glances and does not care about  
business of that sort no matter what family he comes  
from. The realization that such things were of  
importance to note came later.  
  
His mother cast a tracking spell and another to ward  
him from danger, no doubt anticipating his eventual  
escape from even her hawkeyed gaze. Indeed, the break  
for freedom came quickly, as he ran for the sheer joy  
of it and smiled even as he tumbled to the ground. She  
did not join in his amusements and did not lower her  
poise to chase him. She had no reason to fear  
deliberate harm, for her spells would keep him from  
malice or at least give her warning. And she had no  
reason to fear him drowning. He had always hated the  
water.  
  
He ran for what passed as miles to a four year old,  
ran until the empty beach became dotted with faint  
blurs that turned into people as he drew near. These,  
however, were people as he had never seen before. They  
sat on large pieces of coloured cloth and wore  
underclothes instead of robes. Some played in the  
water while others reclined on the ground. His head  
turned left and right as he walked through them.  
  
"My castle!" It was more a squeal than a yell. Sand  
from another's hand fell into his hair and moved,  
itching, down his back. He turned indignantly.  
  
A girl glared back at him with hate in her eyes and  
tears at their corners. Her gaze travelled from him to  
his feet and he too looked down. He was standing on an  
pile of sand that looked very much out of place.  
  
"It's only sand," he said, sniffing, still unsure of  
her anger.  
  
"You broke my castle."  
  
It didn't look much like a castle. Castles were of  
stone and rose into the air cutting against the sky.  
They certainly weren't things that crumpled under the  
feet of little boys.  
  
"It wasn't a very good castle then."  
  
She stomped her foot in derision and, at the movement,  
more sand rolled off of half destroyed towers. "It was  
so. What do you know? It was good until you stepped on  
it."  
  
Then she knelt down and attempted to press sand back  
into some arrangement. He looked at it. Perhaps it was  
a castle indeed. But that wall was all wrong. No, that  
would never do. He crouched and flattened it. She  
squawked and moved to hit him, but he pushed the sand  
over three inches and built it up again. She stared at  
his actions.  
  
He looked back and she dropped her eyes to the sand.  
Then she grabbed a bucket.  
  
They moved together, rebuilding the inner walls,  
filling buckets with wet sand and she laughed as he  
tried to avoid the water while doing so. There were no  
more tears in her eyes and that made him smile back at  
her.  
  
"I'm Mandy," she said at last and stuck her hand out.  
It was as dirty as his own. He raised an eyebrow at it  
and then bowed with a flourish, introducing himself.  
  
She giggled at his name and he frowned, face as stormy  
as his eyes. Her words blocked his angry outburst.  
  
"I wish I had a name like that. I hate Amanda and  
Mandy sounds stupid."  
  
"Why don't you pick another one?"  
  
"'Cause that wouldn't change anything. No one would  
use it."  
  
He promised to pick her another name. His forehead  
knitted together as he thought. He finally chose one  
from one of the ancestors that hung in the hall by his  
room because he liked how it rolled off his tongue.  
  
He called her Amelia and she blushed happily.  
  
They rebuilt the castle, adding towers and turrets  
until it far outstripped the one he had trampled  
underfoot in sheer grandness. A woman in a hat of  
grass came over and complimented them on their work.  
Her clothes were bright, her limbs bear and her eyes  
crinkled with kindness. Amelia called her 'Mum'. She  
asked his name and where his family was. He pointed in  
the direction he had come from. When she asked, they  
carefully explained every battlement and wall. He  
wished his mother would ask questions like that.  
  
When she left to rejoin the rest of Amelia's family  
they continued their stories, adding on tales of  
danger and excitement. Sometimes the woman and the man  
she was with would wave at them as they lived a  
thousand battles of magic and adventure.  
  
Amelia mocked his seriousness when he corrected her  
with things he knew, stripping the limits from their  
games. "It's pretend, silly." And in time he believed  
her, forgetting the rules and restrictions of reality.  
  
They both saw it glittering, a diamond in the sun.  
Amelia was the one to walk to it and pick it up,  
interrupting their dragon hunt. She turned it over in  
her fingers and he came up beside her. They stared at  
it with the wonder of youth, platinum blond and dirty  
curls on heads bent over a piece of shimmering glass.  
  
"It's a magic crystal." He met the declaration with  
agreement as he looked and saw himself in its depths.  
  
Amelia pressed it into his hand. "It's pretty like  
you."  
  
He did something he had never done before and kissed  
her on the cheek, an affectionate child with his  
friend. It was also something he would never do again.  
The woman in the large hat pointed and laughed with  
her husband. It was warm laughter, just like her eyes.  
  
When he was a great mage striving to use the magic of  
the crystal to destroy his enemies with his faithful  
friend at his side he saw her striding across the  
sand. The long robes were out of place in this site of  
flesh and colour.  
  
"Mother," he said respectfully as she glared at Amelia  
and her family. She did not reply.  
  
Her fingers grabbed his hand too tightly and pulled  
him away. Her lips were a thin line etched in her face  
and they did not stir as he looked up at her. She did  
not even look down. Instead, she strode with purpose  
and her pace forced him to struggle to match. He  
turned to Amelia and saw her wave, but stumbled  
instead when he tried to reciprocate and barely caught  
himself. He gripped the rainbow coloured glass tightly  
in his fist as they moved away from the water.  
  
They never visited that beach again.  
  
If he could have recalled with clarity, the knowledge  
that the girl and her family were muggles would have  
been an easy revelation in later years. Time, however,  
does not lend itself to precision and all he has now  
is the faded image of curls against a September sky  
and what it means to truly smile.  
  
When he was six, he showed the crystal to Pansy as  
they sat by the pond at his home. It was a beautiful  
thing and he longed to share it with someone, as if it  
would be enhanced with another's appreciation. None of  
the other boys, sons of his father's friends, would  
have done anything but look at it with scorn. She  
picked it up carefully and examined it with a piercing  
gaze. Then she threw it in the water, her nose turned  
upwards.  
  
"It's not magic at all. That's stupid."  
  
He stared at where it fell in horror, but did nothing.  
There was no doubt he could have summoned aid, could  
have retrieved it with crying and begging and fussing  
as those around him tried to quiet him once more.  
  
This did not even cross his mind. Instead, he took  
Pansy's hand and led her into the house and back to  
her mother. Pansy had already forgotten the incident  
and nibbled on a cookie as soon as it was offered,  
toying with her dress.  
  
He left the room as quietly as he could. He did not  
whine, did not speak of his loss and did not lower his  
dignity. Many would have been surprised that a boy his  
age would show such decorum at the loss of his  
favourite bauble. They would indeed have been  
surprised at him, for he often held tantrums for this  
or for that, spoiled as he was.  
  
But a Malfoy child wants Quiddich brooms and fancy  
toys and artefacts of power. A Malfoy did not long  
after a cheap piece of coloured glass that shimmered  
his reflection when he cupped it in his hands and cast  
broken rainbows on his wall when the sun from his  
window fell behind it.  
  
But that is the past, that is /before/, when he truly  
knew nothing of the world beyond the manor's halls. It  
is what everyone says doesn't matter, even as the past  
still hooks skeletal fingers into his very flesh and  
drags itself with him wherever he goes.  
  
By the time his is seven, his smile is that of his  
father's. It is a cruel ironic twist of lips, a sneer  
much too old for his face. No one notices, or if they  
do, they say nothing. Really, it doesn't matter either  
way.  
  
In his third year he sneaks out of his dorm often. His  
attempts at sleep are interrupted by thoughts of the  
golden trio and he stares at the ceiling, wondering  
after their activities, until he leaves to hunt them  
down himself. It is a hunt he has yet to succeed in.  
  
Even if his fellow Slytherins would not betray him,  
more from fear than loyalty, he often is anxious about  
discovery. His midnight wanderings are interspersed  
with periods of secreting himself away until danger  
has passed.   
  
One night, he stumbles into a room he does not know  
through a door he has not seen before in a familiar  
hallway. He listens breathlessly to Filch's mutterings  
as the man walks by and turns to survey his temporary  
domain.  
  
And almost betrays himself when he sees that Bloody  
Potter git standing in the room with him.  
  
He clamps his hand over his mouth to stifle his gasp,  
then moves forward in confusion. This Potter does not  
speak, though his lips move. There are no exchanges of  
poor wit and childish hatred here. Nor does Potter  
leave the far wall. He cannot as he is caught in a  
piece of glass.  
  
As he moves closer, Potter looks at him and smiles. He  
stops just in front of the mirror, for mirror it is,  
the rest of the room reflected with perfection. But it  
is not the whole mirror that reflects his own.  
Instead, he raises his face to Potter's and stares  
into emerald green, stunned by what he sees. Green is,  
after all, his favourite colour.  
  
He sees himself in those eyes and, for a moment, he is  
real. He is not a pawn on a chessboard, a golem of a  
villain given a temporary half-life, a cut out  
character in a play where he is not allowed to change  
the rules. No, instead he is there and he matters.  
Even if everyone he knows, his father, Dumbledore, his  
'friends', the Dark Lord himself, think otherwise he  
knows that Harry Potter can see HIM.  
  
It is not hard to guess the identity of the mirror as  
its name is hidden by a trick that could fool only a  
simpleton. //Erised,// it reads. //...Desire// He vows  
to come back the next night, even knowing it is  
foolish and dangerous. He knows of many things that  
lead to death and madness and this time he does not  
care. So he comes looking the next night and the next  
night and the night after that.  
  
He never finds the room again except, perhaps, in  
dreams.  
  
Often, he wakes with words on his lips that he does  
not know and tests them, tastes them, as he rolls them  
in his mouth. He does not speak them aloud. He has  
learned that others look at him strangely if he does,  
even Crabbe and Goyle exchange nervous glances. It is  
as if they are a type of madness come bubbling to the  
surface. Their nuances reverberate inside his head,  
bouncing off the walls of his skull and not out of his  
mouth when others might be listening.  
  
Time passes slowly as he waits. Others think he waits  
for his chance in the spotlight, his chance to rise in  
the Dark Lord's sight. That is not what he is waiting  
for, but he mentions nothing. He does not know the  
name of what he is seeking, but it too is a type of  
madness that is better not to be spoken of with  
others.  
  
He keeps fighting with Potter, enjoying the  
momentarily exhilaration, saying things that make the  
other's body vibrate with rage. Yet all he sees is the  
reflection of Potter's glasses as they flash and not  
the eyes beneath. He wonders what Potter would look  
like without them.  
  
By his final year, he has a mark burned into his flesh  
and into his soul. Strangely, for someone who hates  
being under the control of others, he is not angry.  
Even stranger, he is not excited as one who has been  
prepared for this since birth should be. He rebukes  
those who boast and any who have also gained a similar  
station learn quickly to be silent even among their  
own.  
  
It is not only his quick tongue that they fear.  
  
He is the perfect Death Eater. He completes the tasks  
he receives with an efficiency that terrifies those  
around him and stuns those who thought him lacking in  
cunning or intelligence. It is only when it is  
important that such things fail him. It is only when  
he plays childish games that he loses.   
  
His father's hand rests on his back in  
congratulations. It is warm and he shakes it away to  
stand on his own. Those too near him back away. Soon,  
those of his house have to work to conceal the fear in  
their eyes. He eats his dinners without joining in  
their conversations.  
  
The misplaced ambition that overtakes others and  
causes them to falter in their steps is missing. He  
sneers at their outrageous risks and, as they fall, at  
their remains. It is not that he lacks ambition; it is  
that his goals are not the same as those around him.   
  
Only twice does he falter on his rise.  
  
The first time, he steals a muggle girl with curly  
dark hair from a household sentenced to die. When he  
looks at her he remembers when magic and miracles were  
the same thing. He shapes the word 'laughter' on his  
tongue and it means something more akin to joy than  
mockery. It is a definition he had forgotten.  
  
He leaves her with no memory of his face on the door  
of Severus Snape's ancestral home, knowing that those  
who keep the place will bring it to their master's  
attention. He has no doubt that the traitor will find  
her a safe haven.  
  
For his second failure, he keeps the knowledge of  
Snape's true betrayal to himself. Instead, he applies  
himself with fervour in Potions and watches his  
professor with eyes that burn feverishly. He is  
watched in return and sometimes he attempts to smile  
to remove the strain on the face the probes his gaze  
for secret knowledge. The expression that he gives  
offers no one relief.  
  
So he stays after class to ask Severus to help him  
answer a very important question.   
  
A word slips out between his lips and he asks its  
meaning. It is not what the Potion Master had been  
expecting and his answer is stumbled and out of  
character. Snape had been waiting for a confrontation.  
  
The response stuns him more.  
  
"Thank you, Professor Snape. If loyalty is to remain  
faithful to something... perhaps you should know this.  
I will not betray you."  
  
Then he walks out of a room silent save for his  
footsteps and the rattling of breathing. He does not  
expect to be believed.  
  
The next day, Severus nods at him as he enters the  
Great Hall and he knows that what everyone else takes  
for a terrifying grimace in Potions when black eyes  
look his way is actually meant to be something much  
different. He is not the only one who does not  
remember how to smile.  
  
As months pass, he gains a fragment of meaning of  
another word. Perhaps this is friendship, if just a  
ghost of it.  
  
As none suspect these failures, he is not surprised  
when he is given another task. He is assigned with  
eliminating The Boy Who Lived during the final months  
of his duration at Hogwarts.  
  
After years of attempts, of midnight searches, there  
is a certain irony in catching Potter alone at night  
when not even looking for him. He, instead, is seeking  
escape from the stuffiness of his room and the nervous  
stares of his housemates. Being a prefect has its  
advantages and he no longer sneaks in and out of  
shadows.  
  
No, he walks with quick confidence into a person he  
cannot see and grabs at air to catch his balance.  
There are no convoluted plans in the actions at all.  
His hands come away with a cloak of shimmering cloth  
and the sight of startled green eyes meeting his. It  
is anyone's guess as to who is more surprised.  
  
"Well, fancy meeting you here, Potter." His voice is  
still a superior drawl in spite of circumstances and  
Potter reaches for his wand with a frown.  
  
He wonders if his father would be proud of him knowing  
that he is finally faster.  
  
"Expelliarmus!"  
  
Potter's wand flies from his hand and fear flashes in  
his eyes as he falls. He leans down and presses his  
wand under Potter's chin and the boy swallows.  
  
With his free hand he reaches out and removes the  
glasses that obscure the eyes before him. He stands  
up, wand still pointed square at the Golden Boy of  
Gryffindor. The thick heavy frames and lenses crack as  
he drops them to the ground and crushes them beneath  
his feet.  
  
Strange, one would think Potter would look different  
without them, but his eyes are the same. When he looks  
into them, he is not there. His lips quirk. They form  
what would have become a self-mocking smile on anyone  
else, but on him it twists into a smirk instead.  
  
Potter is the one who speaks first, forestalling his  
speech.  
  
"Draco, don't."  
  
The voice is rough and cracking, as if the throat that  
it comes from is desert dry and abraded like abused  
flesh. No doubt it is, for Potter makes it raw with  
the screams of his nightmares. It does not matter that  
some of those nightmares are real.  
  
He can practically hear Potter's thoughts. Truly, it  
would be easy. Potter has no wand and is defenceless.  
The other boy knows of the mark that even now burns  
his skin. //Avada Kedavra.// He toys with it  
momentarily, forms it with his tongue, but does not  
speak, just like so many words before it. Instead, he  
kneels down again and pulls Potter forward, kissing  
him harshly. This is not tenderness or love. He is not  
surprised when Potter kisses him back after a moment  
of shock.  
  
It is bravado and foolishness when he pulls away and  
leaves the other there staring after his retreating  
back. He knows that Potter could retrieve his wand and  
end everything. He also knows he is throwing away a  
chance at the Dark Lord's highest favour. As with most  
things, he does not care.  
  
The mark burns on his arm like fire.  
  
The next day, everyone asks about Potter's glasses.  
Potter mutters something about needing a change and  
doesn't he look better with contacts anyway? He cocks  
his head at Potter's stare.  
  
The second time it happens he suspects Potter of  
waiting for him. They push against each other with  
bitter words and bitter mouths.  
  
The third time, Potter's friends start to whisper  
about where they think their saviour is vanishing to  
at night to escape his dreams. The Slytherin's  
speculate loudly about Potter and the Weasel, leaving  
Granger's face indignantly red. He says nothing, but  
his lips twitch. It seems strange that they speculate  
on such things in times like these. Parents, siblings  
and classmates have begun to vanish into the haze that  
is memory and pain. Or perhaps they seek a  
distraction. In spite of the losses, they think that  
they are winning for the number missing are few. No  
one asks what the Dark Lord is waiting for. If they  
did, he might answer.  
  
The night after he reports his current inability to  
destroy Harry Potter, Severus warns him that he is  
playing a foolish and dangerous game. There is only  
one response he can make to the accusation.  
  
"I know."  
  
It is their last conversation and Potions class is  
cancelled until further notice. Potion Masters are  
difficult to find even at the best of times. It is  
certainly not helped by the knowledge that pieces of  
the previous one are being sent by owl to the  
Headmaster.  
  
When Blaise murmurs to Pansy about an overheard  
conversation between Snape and Dumbledore, he takes  
note.  
  
The Zambini's are horrified to find their only son  
crucified in the woods outside their house a week  
later. Publicly, Death Eaters are blamed. Privately,  
the investigation is ongoing.  
  
Even this does not bring the right questions to the  
minds of the Wizarding World. When it does, it is much  
too late.  
  
A single blow, a co-ordinated strike, wipes out half  
the resistance. They only thank whatever powers they  
believe in that 'The Boy Who Lived' is still just  
that. While he is, there is hope.  
  
Not that there are no casualties among the other side  
and among his own housemates. Most have lost family  
and others say that it is what they deserve. No one  
comforts them, even those who are innocent, and no one  
expects otherwise. Not even him.  
  
Especially not him.  
  
He is not surprised when Potter comes to him. Nor is  
he surprised when afterwards Potter speaks of his  
hopelessness and anger, of Hermione's death and of the  
Weasel's now broken home with half of his siblings  
dead and his father not yet found. He lets him vent  
his rage and stops him from foolish actions. Potter's  
revenge on Voldemort is made to wait and his life is  
prevented from joining the numbers of the dead.  
  
Potter does not ask about his family, about his father  
lying buried under bodies on the dank earth and his  
mother's arrest and subsequent interrogation and  
execution. Nor does Potter ask about where he was  
during the attack.  
  
Thus, he does not have to tell him of Weasley's  
snivelling face at the sight of Hermione's body as she  
falls. He does not tell of how the boy escaped with  
it, apparating from danger with the corpse while  
leaving his own brother to die in the muck alone.  
  
When Potter looks at him, he looks through him and all  
that exists in his eyes is pain. People who don't see  
you never bother to ask the right questions.  
  
He makes one final failure as a Death Eater and it is  
something no one expected except himself, though  
Severus would have guessed it had he still been able.  
When Potter plots revenge, it is he that is the  
sounding board. There is only one other that the  
Wizarding World's hope trusts and Ronald Weasley's  
mental health is far from stable. He aids and refines  
and plots and waits. The last he is used to. He has  
been doing it for a long time.  
  
He is the one Potter returns to covered in the blood  
of his enemies. He is the one who hears a whispered  
"He's dead, he's dead" in his ear as they fuck. Not  
that he hadn't known already, with the mark on his arm  
feeling like it was trying to pull his very soul from  
his body mere hours before.  
  
After they finish, Potter rolls on his back. He is  
spent, but not yet sleeping. He props himself to look  
at Potter and raises a hand to run down Potter's  
throat. His regard is returned.  
  
"Draco?" Potter asks. "What is it?"  
  
He speaks then, words he does not know that have been  
trapped for far too long. It seems like it should mean  
something between them and hangs in the air like a  
dead thing. It reminds him of Blaise, broken and  
still. Potter stares to hear it, then smiles as if he  
understands what is being said even if the speaker is  
mystified.  
  
"I love you too."  
  
The smile falters when the hand wraps around his  
throat and begins to squeeze. He is no longer  
reclining and has both hands to do what needs to be  
done. Potter is weaker than he expected.  
  
The gasps become feeble and the struggles cease.  
Potter lies still. Unmoving eyes stare up at him,  
mirrors of a departed soul.  
  
It is, perhaps, his greatest triumph as a Death Eater,  
but he does not think of that.  
  
For the first time in years, since childhood, he  
smiles, truly smiles, and his face lights from within.  
It becomes something other than a carving of flesh and  
clay. No one, not his parents, not his house, not  
Severus and not even Potter would have recognized the  
expression on his face. One of those words whispered  
in the dark has a sudden meaning, one he has been  
waiting to understand for such a long time. So this is  
what it means to be happy.  
  
He wishes he could keep this forever, look at it  
whenever he wants to, to see this whenever he takes it  
out to enjoy. That is impossible, so he looks back  
down at the one beneath him and memorizes everything.  
Perhaps it is better this way, for there is no one he  
can show it to and it needs nothing to enhance it.  
  
Now, Draco can see himself reflected in Harry's eyes.  
  
It is a beautiful thing.  
  
END  
  
Wow, wasn't that a fun ride? And this is the point  
where I decide I'm glad I can never meet my  
subconscious face to face.  
  
  
Please review!  



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